A Hangman Is Nothing Without His Noose
by cymbalism
Summary: Castiel waits for their heartbeats to settle, waits for Dean to look at him again. "We are supposed to make the best choice we can," he says, and holds Dean's stare long enough to witness the moment Dean recognizes his own words. ::Dean/Cas, 6.20 coda::


**A/N:** A coda to "The Man Who Would Be King," written on the brink of the finales. I feel you should know the working the summary for this was "moody and atmospheric mytharc pointlessness with lots of arguing." Many thanks to Lielabell for helping me make it more than that. **Pairing:** Dean/Cas. **Spoilers:** Through 6.20.

**Disclaimer:** Fic is for fun, not for profit.

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><p><strong>A Hangman Is Nothing Without His Noose<strong>

_But I will hold on hope / And I won't let you choke / on the noose around your neck / And I'll find strength in pain / and I will change my ways / I'll know my name as it's called again. _—"The Cave," Mumford & Sons

Dean's talking and Cas doesn't seem to be listening, but whatever. The angel showed up on his own so he must have come for a reason and he can blow the hell out whenever he wants.

They're out back at Bobby's, standing a the jungle of mangled metal and up to their eyeballs in feeling shitty. Or at least Dean is. Cas looks half beat and totally bushed, shoulders a slump under his trench coat, and it only makes Dean want to yell louder.

Dean wrenches on the engine of a junked Chevy he's yanking spare parts from and tells Cas too late that freedom is about making choices. "You always have a choice, until you get dead or go crazy. And you're supposed to make the best choice you can."

Cas looks at him sidelong, deadpan like he's been doing it for centuries. "I do understand the concept, Dean."

Dean whacks the engine hard and points his wrench accusingly at Cas. "No, you don't. If you understood we wouldn't be—"

He stops when he realizes he's shoved his way into Cas's personal space.

Cas's eyes narrow, all steely despair. "What, Dean. We wouldn't be what?"

Dean rubs his forehead, backs away. "I don't know, Cas. Here, I guess." He spreads his arms wide to indicate the entire cosmic clusterfuck and swipes his beer off the car as his arms swing back in. "In this mess."

"On opposite sides, you mean. Fighting."

"Yes. I mean, no. No, we're not—" He stops again, because they are. They're fighting. And sooner rather than later it won't be with just words. "Fuck, Cas, I don't know."

Dean feels like he failed—failed to explain, failed to understand that just because Cas is an angel doesn't mean he's incapable of fucking up. He should have taught him more stuff instead of letting him fly around out there on his own. Fewer lessons in porn, more in real-life shit. Dean taught Sam practical stuff—how to survive, how to fix the Impala. He could've taught Cas the abstract shit, like how to consult a moral compass or something. He just didn't know he needed to.

But he thinks he should have. Same as always.

Dean leans heavily against the dusty frame of the empty car. "It's hard, is all I'm saying. I get that." He thinks about Sam and the pit, and about the time he'd almost made himself Michael's meat suit, and about Adam, still stuck in eternal torture. All decisions he'd made, every one of 'em. He sucks back on his beer then stares at the label. "It's hard for everybody."

**. . . . .**

Castiel discovers he can't stay away. He repeatedly finds his way to wherever the Winchesters are—wherever Dean is—toeing the line they've drawn in the sand. He can't leave the war, but he can't stop himself from seeking them out.

The boys know now what he has done. They feel he has betrayed them. But they still believe he remains what he always has been. Stubbornly, impossibly, they still think of him as the good and righteous and worthy Cas.

_And as long as they still believe it, you get to believe it,_ he hears Crowley whisper.

The Winchesters are his touchstone, the standard against which he judges himself, like striking metal to stone to test its color, its purity. The problem is that gold is the same color as sulfur.

Demons may not be trustworthy, but that doesn't mean they're never right.

**. . . . .**

They spend days looking for ways to stop Cas. Bobby'd said they'd have to be cautious, smart, and stock up on kryptonite. The closest thing Dean's got is an angel sword left over from the apocalypse.

Now he just has to talk himself up to using it.

**. . . . .**

Mostly they say what's already been said. The push-pull of their conversations is like a magnetic force, drawing them together and repelling them apart.

Castiel materializes under the shade of a tree in a town park where Dean is watching children play on a diamond scratched in dirt. He is a distance away, but Dean senses him all the same.

They exchange no greeting. Dean fills the space next to him, body close but closed, his arms crossed and lips pursed, as though he had no choice but to come stand by Castiel's side.

Castiel looks out over the ball field, eyes pinched against the bright sun. After a moment he says, "Tell me why you want to stop me."

Dean huffs a laugh and shakes his head at the ground. "You seriously need to ask?" Castiel pauses to consider the question, but Dean capitulates. "Because nothing good comes out of giving a demon what he wants, that's why."

They've been here before. This argument is familiar. But Castiel makes it anyway. "You did. The same demon, in fact."

"Yeah, and then he conveniently forgot to give Bobby's soul back," Dean scoffs."So say I learned from experience." His hands are at his sides now, but he has stepped away.

"If you stop me, Raphael will win the war," Castiel tells him, again. "Free Will will be destroyed. _Everything_ will be destroyed."

Dean throws up his arms and turns his back. Castiel sees his pain despite it.

"What is it you want from me, Cas? My blessing?" Dean wheels, pinning him with a look and stalking nearer as he speaks. "You want me to say, 'It's okay, I get it,' and 'Do what you gotta do and I'll be here when you come back'?"

Eyes pleading and worry worn plain, Dean fills Castiel's field of vision and Castiel feels the inexorable pull between them, a riot of emotion and attraction that he knows sears through them both. Dean is searching his face for an answer, one hand grasped loose around trench coat lapel, so Castiel tilts his chin and gives him the only one he has. "Yes," he breathes and lets their mouths connect.

These unspoken words are new, desire chief among them. Dean deepens the kiss and Castiel falters against him. This, Castiel thinks, is what makes Free Will dangerous. Dean breaks off first.

"Dammit, Cas," he chokes up and chokes back. He turns his face to the side, grip tightening on the trench coat. "I told you, we'll find a way to fix this," he rasps, meeting Castiel's gaze hesitantly. "All of this."

This time it's Castiel who drops his eyes. Despite what just took place, he knows what comes next. "And I told you, I have already found a way, Dean."

Dean's jaw sets, his eyes like flint. "Yeah, well, your way's not good enough." He shoves off.

Castiel waits for their heartbeats to settle, waits for Dean to look at him again. "We are supposed to make the best choice we can," he says, when Dean does, and holds his stare long enough to witness the moment Dean recognizes his own words.

Neither of them has anything new to say.

**. . . . .**

Bobby and Sam spend the days reading up on what might happen if Purgatory cracks open. They search for Crowley. Catch another hunter-demon. They come up with nothing.

Dean's not sure if that's a bad thing or a good thing.

He's not sure about a lot of stuff anymore.

**. . . . .**

It's storming. This time Dean called him down, drunk and cursing at the roiling sky. He splutters and shouts, anger and sadness rolling off him like water. Castiel aches for him, but he doesn't have time for this fight.

"I have made mistakes," he says to cut Dean short.

"You think?" Dean spits and Castiel glowers at him through a flash of lightning.

Castiel moves forward through the rain as though it's not falling. "I don't like what I've become," he snarls. "I don't like the things I have had to do." If it's what you do that defines you, Castiel fears he isn't what he used to be. He could be cast out for his actions. One day his eyes could turn black. His fears are many, and growing. "But I chose it." His voice raises over the crash of the storm. "I made that decision, Dean, to spare you, to preserve what you'd fought for, and to protect the thing I cherish most. I don't regret that."

He wants the weight of those words to settle on Dean, but Dean Winchester never stops fighting.

"This is not how we do things, Cas," he shouts back, seemingly stone-cold sober.

Castiel's jaw clenches. "Freedom, Dean, does not mean I must follow your orders. My freedom is not to do what _you _want." His hands clench into fists, but he flies away before he can use them.

**. . . . .**

Dean corners Cas in a warehouse in Middle of Fuckin' Nowhere, USA—as much as you can corner an angel, anyway.

He thought he was prepared to do this; he's been carrying the sword around for weeks. But when he pulls it from his jacket and Cas's face darkens, Dean's stomach hits the floor. Now that he's here, now that he's pretty much the only thing between the dynamic angel and demon duo and the gate to Purgatory, he's not so sure.

"I won't fight you, Dean," Cas says, palms spread.

"Good, that'll make this easier," Dean bluffs and feels sick at himself. This is _Cas_. He can't even put words on all the things that means. "'Cause I won't let you do this."

Cas could drop him with a touch. He could whip him across the room without fucking touching him. But Cas won't go near the sword and he won't play offense. All Dean's gotta do is get close.

Yeah, right. That's all. His heart rails against his chest.

He starts to circle.

"I know what I'm doing, Dean. I know what I'm fighting for," Cas grates, watching him sharply. "Do you?"

Dean adjusts his grip on the weapon and doesn't answer.

"I'm doing this for—"

"Don't say it," Dean cuts him off, glaring hard. "Don't fucking make this my fault, Cas. This isn't about me. This was all you. You had a _choice_."

Cas takes a step toward him. "Tell me, Dean," he taunts, and Dean hates him, hates that he knows how to do that, hates that these are the things Cas has learned. "Tell me what you're fighting for. Tell me why you want to kill me."

Dean's gut twists. He shakes his head against Cas's words and drops his stance. "I don't want to," he sighs and slumps closer to Cas. Then he snaps tight, sword poised. "I have to," he snarls, and lunges.

Cas counters the blow. He flows through the motion to come out the other side unscathed. Unscathed, but within range. Dean swipes again. This time Cas grabs his wrist and spins him fast, pinning him against a pillar.

"No, Dean," he growls, then captures Dean's mouth, kissing him deep and smooth, sliding a hand up the back of Dean's neck. Dean winces as though it hurts, because it does, right through to his soul, but he kisses him back, full of anger and want and crap apologies and a hundred things there's not names for. But his arm is still tensed, the sword still ready. It doesn't matter what Dean wants—

Cas breaks off the kiss and presses their foreheads together. One hand still cupped over Dean's wrist, holding back the blade. "No, Dean," he repeats in a rough whisper. "You have a choice."

-end-


End file.
